Stitching
by FreckledAdvocate
Summary: Sam is 12, Dean is 16. Sam is still too young to really join in the action, that is, until his family really needs his help. Wounded John, maybe wounded/protective Dean, young Sam. Lots of emotional and physical whumpage. Based on real banshee folklore
1. Chapter 1

At twelve years old, Sam Winchester was one smart kid. He had the highest grade point average in his sixth grade class, which endlessly annoyed him because he should have been in the seventh grade by his age. As a very smart kid, he was placed in all the honors classes with the other smarter kids. And while he had never had a conventional childhood he was very aware of social norms.

Even though in his family canned soup was considered a rare home cooked meal, he knew that normal families gathered after school and work around a kitchen table and ate a real home cooked meal. Even though Sam was trained in martial arts and could use any number of weapons better than most adults, he knew that normal kids did things like boy scouts and joined soccer teams. Even though he had yet to kiss a girl, Sam knew what his brother older brother was doing with various girls on the high school cheer-leading squad without having to be told. And even though his brother and father showed absolutely no interest in academics past helping him with his homework when absolutely necessary; Sam knew that smart kids like himself grew up to become one of two things, either a doctor or a lawyer. However at twelve years old he wasn't sure which one he wanted to be just yet, until half way through the school year when a series of events made the choice for him highly obvious.

* * *

John Winchester stumbled through the coarse screen door of the apartment he had rented two months before with his 12 and 16 year old sons. He groaned loudly, clutching his left arm above the elbow where blood was pouring out liberally. He was disgusting, covered in dirt from head to toe, or blood from various other smaller injuries he'd received. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the salt can off the table to his right and pouring a line in front of the now closed door knowing that the windows and other entrances to the house would already be secure.

He gasped as he peeled his now soiled jacket off, nearly blacking out from the pain as it scraped against his bloody arm. He staggered over to the liquor cabinet and fell to his knees in front of it, which was only somewhat intentional. He threw the doors open and hastily grabbed two things; a bottle of vodka and a small first aid kit he'd stored there. In a brief moment of vertigo it occurred to him how surreal his life was; he highly doubted anyone else would keep a first aid kit in a liquor cabinet but he'd learned early on that easy access made things like this slightly easier. However this thought was wiped clean from his mind as he stood up and nearly fell back down again in agony.

He clawed the cap off the bottle and downed at least three shots worth of alcohol at once, relishing in the distracting sting in his throat. Then he managed to haul himself into the surprisingly well lit bathroom with the large mirror, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

He checked the time before he began, relieved that it was only around 11 a.m. and his sons wouldn't be home from school to witness this anytime soon.

The small house resounded with yelps, gasps, and even a quickly restrained sob or two as John set to work. His relief at his sons' absences was soon replaced by a longing for his oldest, Dean's, help. After all, his hands were shaking, his eyesight was constantly clouded in pain and the bullet lodged in his arm was not easy to get to with only his right hand to find it. He found himself a clean pair of socks that he stuffed in his mouth, cleaned the blade with the vodka and was soon in a self induced hell, the socks being the only thing stifling his cries. He could barely persuade himself to pour the vodka over his excruciating injury, only being able to with pure determination and knowledge of necessity.

Four hours later John lay on top of his bed, shaking violently and sweating profusely. His breathing was ragged, and he terribly needed to bathe. His eyes were closed and the room was thankfully spinning, the empty bottle was on the bedside table. But he was done, the bullet was in a glass of water on the bathroom counter, and his arm was wrapped tightly in white gauze.

* * *

"Hey Dean, do you think maybe we could watch that monster movie tonight; the old Godzilla one you rented?"

Dean ruffled his brother's hair as he walked in front of him, his backpack practically bigger than he was as the two of them walked home from Sam's middle school. He smirked at his little brother. He would never understand Sammy's eagerness to do well in school, but he sure was glad his intellectual side took a break long enough for the two of them to sit down and watch cheesy horror movies together and be unbelievably stupid. At sixteen, Dean's image was everything, and in all aspects the kids in this new school viewed him as a badass, just like he wanted. However the only exception to this persona was the fact that he loved hanging out with his little geeky middle school brother. But that didn't bother him. It wasn't his fault that his little brother was really weird, nor did that really bother him at all. He also happened to be the best and funniest person to watch a really cheesy horror movie with. He was the only other one who could laugh so hard (or make such good jokes about) at a corny rip-off of their hidden lifestyle.

"I don't know about tonight, squirt. We have to train for a bit and then I think I'm going out on a date with Clara… Clare? Clara? No, I think it was Clara, definitely Clara…"

He trailed off while Sam rolled his eyes.

"You might want to double check before you have a repeat of the Lauren incident."

"Oh come on, her twin sister's name was Lesley, it was a perfectly innocent mistake to make!"

"Yup, keep telling yourself that Dean." Sam laughed and scuttled away as Dean pretended to drop kick him. "So, how about tomorrow for the movie?" Sam continued a minute or so later.

"Yea sure, whatever you say." Dean grinned.

By this point the brothers had reached the house and Dean had thrust open the screen door holding it open as Sam went in under his arm.

"Dean?" the tone of Sam's voice had changed from light-hearted to apprehensive, putting Dean immediately in protection mode.

"What?" He said turning away from locking up the door and to his brother in haste.

"Salt" Sam said, pointing to the floor where the door had smeared the obvious salt line that had been there. Dean's gaze followed his brother's gesture and in the same beat he called out urgently, "Dad?"

The reason for the sudden tension was because both brothers knew that if their father was home, was not coming to meet them in the den, and had put up a salt barrier for precaution; something was probably wrong.

"_In here._" They heard John's voice from his bedroom. Both brothers exchanged a worried glance. He didn't sound so great.

"Sammy, put up another salt line and check all the doors and windows."

Sam nodded curtly; Dean was at his father's door in three strides.

"Dad!" Dean exclaimed, rushing over to the bed where he took in his father's state. "What happened?!"

"I'm fine." John muttered weakly, clearly lying. Dean knelt down so he was at eye level with the very low mattress that his father was sprawled out on.

"The person who'd been protecting the banshee, they had a –ah! –a shotgun." He said gritting his teeth for a moment. Dean's stomach dropped, but his expression remained stoic.

"I'll be fine by tomorrow, but this thing needs to go down by tonight, or it could hurt someone else. Take Sam, but only let him drive the car – I don't want him in the action. It's up to you to finish the job."

"Yes sir." Dean said instantly and he stood up. His father said he would be fine by tomorrow so he'd be fine by tomorrow. He said that he had a job to do, so he had a job to do – he wouldn't waste any time mulling around.

"Sam!" Dean called. The twelve year old had his scrawny head poking in the doorway. His expression was distraught.

"Dad! Oh man, are you all right???" Sam exclaimed in fear.

John actually made a slight effort to raise his head, but didn't succeed much.

"Sammy, I'm fine. Listen to your brother; you've got a job to do."

Sam gazed up at Dean with those big sappy eyes that made his heart melt a bit at the amount of raw juvenile concern pooling there.

"C'mon Squirt." Dean said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder and leading him out of the room.

"Dean?"

"What bud?"

"Will Dad really be alright, or is he just saying that?"

For a second Dean was doubtful, but then he thought it through. This wasn't the first time, and probably wouldn't be the last time his father had been shot. It might hurt like a bitch, but he'd be fine eventually.

"Nah, he'll be okay. Really Sam, don't worry so much. Now tonight we have to go kill this thing, which means one thing. You get to drive the car."

Despite the existing worried expression on Sam's face, a slight grin did light up as can only be expected when any twelve year old boy is handed the keys to '67 vehicle. Dean grinned proudly back.

"Dean!" His dad shouted before groaning. Both brothers turned their heads.

"Sammy, go start the car I'll be right there."

Sam nodded then scurried out the front door.

"Yes sir?" Dean said walking back in. John's eyes were closed, his good hand over his face, tiredly.

"At some point soon we really gotta teach Sammy how to stitch."

Dean grimaced, that was one of the most traumatic skills they had to learn in this lifestyle. He didn't want to subject little innocent Sammy to learn that. Regardless he nodded anyway.

"Yes sir."

Then he was off, going out the door after his little brother.


	2. Chapter 2

"So what exactly is the story?" Sam asked, looking briefly over to the passenger seat at his older brother.

While Sam was constantly prepped for occasions like this and knew exactly what his father and brother did for a "profession", he usually wasn't brought into specific situations unless absolutely necessary. In this case he knew there was banshee, but that was about it. He'd been more preoccupied with the math test he was taking tomorrow, or he had been until seeing his wounded father put things in perspective for the time being.

Dean was trying to scope out a parked car off in the distance. The last thing they needed was to be pulled over by some cop who realized that there was indeed a scrawny 12 year old illegally driving the car. Sam was tall but he was still too young to pass for anything older than 14 tops. Dean relaxed when he saw two figures in the back of the car and the lights off. It wasn't a cop, just two innocent (depending on your definition of innocent) civilians pulled over on the side of the road. He smirked as they whizzed past the car, leaving it shrinking back in their wake.

"Dean?"

"Oh, right sorry. Basically there's this banshee that Dad thinks is haunting an old Irish comb. A banshee's just a Celtic female ghost that sings before someone's death, so we can still use salt. In our case someone learned how to control the thing so that whoever picks up the comb becomes the next victim. Dad figured out the person responsible is an old woman named," he flipped through a folder on his lap for a moment, "Fiona O'Brien. She's playing the innocent old immigrant, but she's actually killing people left and right. Some of the victims are random which indicated personal grudges but a few are almost self-righteous. Like there were these three openly gay citizens and one Muslim activist, so she's picking sinners. The old bitch apparently shot dad with a shotgun so she's armed. All we gotta do is get the comb and do the ol' salt and burn."

"Ok. So when dad had me researching Fiona O'Brien that was why."

"Did you find anything useful?"

He flipped through a few pages that looked official and he couldn't really comprehend, but obviously Sam had been able to.

"Well I hacked onto a few government websites and found that she came over here from Ireland when she was 18, which was back in 1956. She had a twin sister who had died when she was only 7."

Dean looked up to beam proudly at his little brother. How many other twelve year olds could fight evil like it was an everyday occurrence, expertly drive a '67 Impala, and be smart enough to hack onto government websites? That was why Dean didn't mind Sam's smarts at all – they were incredibly useful.

"But why did the old hag start killing people now?" Dean asked, thinking aloud.

"Well she did just receive a package in the mail from her hometown in Ireland about three months ago, which I'm guessing is when the killings started happening because we came to town two months ago? So maybe someone else had the comb and she just received it in the mail, realized it was her sister's and learned how to use it."

"That definitely makes sense."

"So what's the plan?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Well, first things first, you're going to stay in the car."

"Aw, c'mon, De-e-e-ean!" Sam whined, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. Dean never knew how Sam would respond to situations like this. He often went off about how he wanted a normal life, but whenever it came to actually being in the action, he was always eager to jump in and make himself useful. Dean also noticed he was usually more enthusiastic when Dad wasn't there giving (or rather barking) commands.

"Sorry Squirt, Dad's orders. Besides you're not missing much. We'll park a few houses down, I'm gonna break in a back window knock out the old lady, grab the comb and scram. It'll just be an easy in and out. If anything I'm gonna need a getaway car more so than backup."

Sam sighed, "Fine."

A few minutes later Dean instructed Sam to pull up the car on the road directly behind the old woman's house. That way the car would be as close as possible to the back door, and less conspicuous from any vantage point in front of the house.

"Alright, here, take this" Dean gave Sam a shot gun and a handful of salt rounds. "If you hear or see anything; my cell phone is on. Leave the window cracked so you can hear but keep the doors locked. You gonna be ok?"

"I'll be fine. Will you?" Sam replied cheekily. Dean cracked a smile before ruffling Sammy's hair once more and exiting the car. Sam watched him crouch down and approach the house so quietly that even Sam couldn't hear him. The only thing Sam could hear was the screen door squeaking as it opened. Then he settled in for the wait.

A few minutes ticked by but then he heard a car pull into the driveway. He ducked down, only raising himself high enough to peer out the window. Apparently Ms. O'Brien was home, and she wasn't going in her front door. She was holding a handful of flowers and wearing gardening gloves.

Oh shit.

She was about to start gardening in the fading evening light, right outside the door that Dean was going to try to come out of, not realizing she was there. He'd probably already scouted out the place, discovered her missing and set out searching for the comb. Once he'd found it he would most likely just go right out the back door and walk right into her. And what was worse, Sam realized with a pang of fear, was that as she was rummaging through her purse she pulled out (as casually as if everyone carried one in their purse) a small handgun which she laid on the grass briefly. Once she'd found what she'd been seeking; a visor to shade her face, she replaced it back into her bag.

Sam had to think fast. He had to get Dean out of the house; he had to warn him not to use the back door. He could call him, but then his cell phone going off would probably give him away. There was no other way to get his attention. Unless… unless Sam could distract the old woman, so that Dean _could_ use the back door. Sam looked about and reached for a notebook he'd accidentally left in the back of the car earlier in the week that contained mostly notes from the last school he'd been in. There was also a rather large jacket that Dean had discarded at some point in the past week. Sam put on the jacket, placing the gun in a special slit Dean had sewn into the inside flap purely for the sake of carrying a gun inconspicuously. Then he grabbed the notebook and got out of the car from the door farthest from Ms. O'Brien's house immediately crouching down and letting the car shield him from her sight.

Sam ran away from her house until he was at a safe enough distance to discreetly double back crossing the street and approaching her house from the front door. He scratched some things on his notebook, before coming forward and ringing the doorbell. He had to ring it a few times before Ms. O'Brien heard it and came through the house to her front door. Sam prayed that she wouldn't run into Dean along the way and gave a small sigh of relief when she opened the door, obviously none the wiser.

"Yes?"

"Hi! Are you…" Sam consulted his notebook for a moment as if checking for a name on a long list "Ms. O'Brien?"

"Yes that's me."

Sam put on his nicest most perky, "dealing with adults" persona and said with so much enthusiasm it would have been sickening to anyone his own age.

"Hi Ms. O'Brien! My name is Trevor Noble, and I'm a member of the Catholic youth society!"

She beamed at him, good; the puppy dog routine was working. He purposefully spoke as loudly as possible so Dean would hear what he was saying. But his palms were sweating, how long could he keep this up? Usually it was Dean or Dad that did the blatant scamming and lying for them. And Sam still had no idea how this would help get Dean out of the house without Ms. O'Brien noticing.

She smiled broadly at him.

"Oh hello Trevor, it's nice to meet you! What can I do for you today?"

The gooey smile faltered just for a second before he picked the act back up easily.

"Well Ms. O'Brien, I'm selling Bibles for our group, would you be interested in buying one?"

"That sounds lovely! Why don't I just grab my –"

Just then a female started shrieking upstairs, which was immediately followed by the loud bang of a shotgun going off. Both Sam and the old woman careened their necks up to the ceiling. Then the old woman bolted for the stairs leaving Sam standing unacknowledged in the doorway.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean entered the house cautiously, brandishing his handgun the way his father had taught him to. It was quiet. He pulled the door shut behind him without turning around and proceeded to go from one room to the next until he was sure the place was secure. Once he realized it was empty he went upstairs to the old lady's bedroom and began rooting around in some drawers.

Of course there would be a thin locked, suspicious looking box in her third drawer from the top. Of course it would, because the third drawer happened to be her underwear drawer.

"Aw, c'mon." Dean murmured with a grimace, reaching into the vat of granny panties. There had never been a time when he'd been less happy to view a woman's underwear.

"Gross…" He muttered, involuntarily getting an image of the old bitch in the lacy panties his right hand was accidentally touching. As soon as the sixteen year old had a grip on the locked parcel he drew his hand back quickly, shaking it a few times as if to get the cooties off.

Now that he had the small box in his hand he examined it closely. It was slightly bigger than an envelope and about a centimeter in width. It had some etchings in another language on one side, probably Gaelic. He'd ask Sam to take a look at it back in the car; the kid was a bit of a language wiz, or rather just a knowledge wiz in general. He inadvertently smiled at the thought.

He glanced over his shoulder than started to pick at the box with his lock pick. He needed to make sure this had the comb in it, he certainly didn't want to make a return visit to the third drawer because he hadn't bothered to check the contents. He had just about broken off the lock when he heard the doorbell ring.

"Shit!"

He jumped about a foot in the air. Then crouched down behind the bed as a precaution, catching his breath after the surprise heart attack he didn't need. Well, at least she wasn't home to answer.

That's when he heard a door somewhere downstairs creak open than shit. His eyes got wide and he crouched lower. _She was home? _

He heard the woman move across the house and answer the door with a "Yes?"

"Hi! Are you . . . Ms. O'Brien?"

Den's eyes got wider. That was Sammy's voice! What was he -? He probably saw her come home and just needed to get Dean to realize it too. Little Sammy was saving his ass, huh. He rejoined the conversation right when Sam said loudly and happily, "…and I'm a member of the Catholic youth society!"

Dean chuckled once. He'd finally taught the kid how to lie. Alright, Sammy, message received. Now all he had to do was break open the box and get out with Sam acting as a distraction. He managed to open the box a few seconds later.

"Yes!" He exclaimed quietly laying his eyes on the old ratty looking comb. He moved o close it back up and put it in the bag. Dad had told him earlier that none of them should ever touch it. How it worked was that the old lady placed some DNA of the next victim on the comb and that's how the ghost knew its targets. Hair worked the best because it was a comb, but even a touch on a skin cell could send it hunting. He noticed a few pieces of hair interwoven with the comb's teeth, all of different colors. He brought it closer to examine it. It must be the victims' hair. He was trying to remember specific physical details about the victims. One of them was definitely blond, and he had a mental image of a black haired woman. Both blond and black hairs were there.

Just then he sneezed. He muffled it in his elbow so it wasn't heard but in a moment of panic he acted reactively. He reached out and grabbed the falling comb before it hit the ground.

"Oh shit."

"Why don't I just grab my –"

Then there was screaming, a terrible, wailing screeching filling Dean's ears. He raised his gun and shot at the ghost woman in front of him making her disappear.


End file.
